Raccoon Requiem
by Axehandle
Summary: Updated! Whoo! This explains the non-canonical history of the outbreak inside the R.P.D. beyong the papers left behind in RE: 2 and 3. All publicly recognizable media is copyrighted by Capcom. All OCs belong to me. Enjoy! :3
1. The prolouge to the nightmare

_Author's note: Um, this is rated T for violence that hasn't happened yet. There will be more to this, trust me! This isn't even the first book, yet. With that said, I'll try to introduce as little OCs as possible. I detest the RE movies with my soul, so none of those characters will show up. I mean, the last movie wasn't that bad. But... Alice just came out of the blue. Bleh. Anyways, enjoy. This will sum up what happened in the R.P.D. that goes beyond the memos seen in the Station in RE: 2 and 3. :3_

September 22nd. 2:24 PM. Prologue to the nightmare.

**A pair of leather shoes clacked upon the marble floor of a hallway.**

A man of short stature and a plump torso walked contently down a long hallway. Paintings and other various and randomized pieces of art hung upon the white walls next to the fat man. Taking a swift left turn, the man began stroking his beard with an index finger and a thumb. He wore a brown vest, with a beige business shirt underneath, the sleeves cuffed around his wrists. To match his attire completely, he also sported brown slacks. His black leather dress shoes sparkled as if they were new. His wide cheeks twitched in the forming of a smile, his brown beard moving with it.

"Yes... finally..." the man grunted, his breathing heavy as he reached the end of the hallway. The large green door ahead of him was locked; it required a certain kind of key. He remembered that the architect for the Raccoon Police Department, or the R.P.D, was an avid gambler, liking the way poker cards looked. The fat male pulled a key from his pocket, one that had the likeness of a heart at the base of the key. Inserting it into the keyhole, and turning it, he put a meaty hand on the knob, turning it slowly. Inside was a small office, with a secret hiding place in the back. As the door creaked completely open, a chubby finger flipped a light switch. The single light bulb overhead flicked to life soon afterward. The room was now dimly lit, and more of its features could be noticed. A clutter of papers mobbed the top of a brown oak desk. A bulletin board was off to the left of the room, with requests for "Police Chief Irons". The room's walls were a tan color. The most notable feature, however, was the animal heads pasted onto the tan walls. Everything from bears, to deer, to foxes, to squirrels, and the mascot of Raccoon City, a raccoon.

"Hmm..." Brian Irons flipped through a few papers upon his messy desk, turning on a lamp that was sloppily placed atop a few yellow folders. He tossed the request from some officers down without much interest. He reclined in a leather chair behind the desk, placing his head in his hands, and gliding through his hair slowly. What was he to do? He had just narrowly escaped the Mansion Incident getting out into the public. It's a shame S.T.A.R.S, the Special Tactics and Rescue Service, had to disband. They were truly the elite among the R.P.D. He gently chuckled as he had used the S.P.F, the Select Police Force, to try and replace him. Unfortunately, there would never be another S.T.A.R.S, and Brian knew this. Umbrella was breathing down his neck. He could never be left alone anymore. Not another night of enjoying some whiskey while hunting in the Raccoon Park. No more busy afternoons of hurrying to the drug store to stock up on prescription drugs. Nope. William Birkin, the lead researcher for Umbrella in Raccoon's vicinity, had been urging him to make arrangements for a meeting in the laboratory in the basement of the R.P.D. He'd been quite passive about it, really. He only came once a month or so, only to check out the progress of his experiments. Brian opened a drawer in his oak desk, his large hands desperately grabbing a near empty bottle of liquor.

"Chief?" came a knock on the door. It was his secretary. Taking a large swig, then putting the bottle back where it was next to his Colt Python high caliber magnum, Irons rose up with a heavy grunt from his chair. He had some work to do. With a mental laugh, he opened the door. A woman only a bit shorter than himself looked at him worriedly as he stood in the doorway.

"Yes...?" Brian asked in a monotonous tone, obviously not interested in what she had to say. She let out a slight sigh, before handing him a clipboard with a stack of papers attached to it.

"Chief Irons! You've been slacking in your work! You're always in your office, and there's a ton of paperwork to file! All the officers are complaining that there isn't a lot of ammo left for them when they go out on their patrols!" she complained. Her blue business jacket and lighter blue undershirt, the colors required of all R.P.D employees, rustled stiffly as she moved her arms in frantic gestures. As Brian looked uninterestedly at the files presented before him, she gave a stomp of her blue heel, her blue skirt moving with it. Irons took his eyes off of the paper to look down at the article of clothing that only reached her knees, before she gave him an angry glare.

"Isn't that what you're for, Lisa?" Brian finally broke the silence, slamming the door without waiting for a reply. He relaxed as he heard angry clicking fading down the long hallway leading to his office. He locked the door with a _click, _and sat back down. His officers already knew about the missing ammo? He'd scattered ammo caches around the precinct, in an attempt to make it harder on his officers for what was to come. A ring of the blue corded telephone nearby made him jump. He forgot he even had that in his office. He opened the blinds located behind his chair, letting golden sunlight inside his gloomy retreat, picking up the incessantly ringing phone soon after.

"Hello?" Brian asked the caller.

"Yes. Um... a rookie police officer will be arriving at your police department located at East Sixty Third and Ennerdale. We're sure you were aware of this," came the dry and bland voice of a recorded messenger. Rolling his eyes, Irons adjusted his gaze to the new light emerging into his office. "We are pleased to have helped you. Goodbye." A click could be heard from the other side. Hanging up the phone with more force than intended, the fat man plopped back down in his reclining office chair once more, taking a swig from his white bottle of liquor. He pulled out the small magnum in his desk, aiming at the terrified face of a cotton stuffed raccoon.

"Say goodbye, Raccoon City," Irons whispered, pretend-firing the deadly weapon.


	2. The first chapter in the nightmare

_Thanks for the review Cjjs! I appreciate those stories too!_

_Again, I apologize for all the buildup. Hoesntly, I want to just tear in there and go "zombies broke in nao! Halp!" But I can't. Suspense is what draws the readers in, and I want to make this story as good as possible. Sorry if it gets too much for you. The zombie attack doesn't get busy 'till around the gourth or fifth chapter. Teehee~_

_Anyways, this is rated T for violence, that, again, has not happened yet. But it will. I assure you. Also for alcohol use and gun stuff. So, please enjoy the story._

_PS: I did a hell of a lot of research about Resident Evil 2, going so far as beat the game twice. However, I still got some of the characters mentioned in the memos all twisted up. So I said screw it. So... I just changed some stuff around. Be sure to point out any errors or mistakes! And dropping a review would be just lovely!_

September 23rd. 11:42 AM. The first chapter of the nightmare.

**The faint hum of a car sounded afar off.**

Officer William Davis rode his Honda to work. The officer lived on West Park street, so it was a bit of a journey from work and back. He wore his normal work attire, his light blue short sleeved shirt, with dark blue shoulder pads reading "R.P.D" and the Raccoon Police Department's logo on each. His blue pockets near his chest contained an extra magazine of nine millimeter parabellum rounds. His standard issue Browning Hi-Power, fully loaded and fully deadly. His black tie flew by in the wind from the air blasting from his window, his brown hair flying everywhere. His black trousers were still hot and stiff from the iron. As he passed by the neighborhood, women and children waved to him. People walking their dogs nodded or tipped their hats casually. He smiled back, driving with one skilled hand.

"Still got some time..." Davis mumbled to himself, his words drowned out by the now dying wind. "It's only 11:42..." He parked at his favorite place to be in the afternoon; Grill 13. They served the best foods, and sometimes, Raccoon City Mayor Michael Warren would stop by and compliment him on how good of a job he was doing. He parked in the front parking lot, opening the door and stepping out of the car. Smelling the scent of grilled chicken- the local specialty- he eagerly locked the doors and stepped into the restaurant. Stepping up to the cashier at the front of the business, he ordered grilled chicken bits to go, sitting down on a stool when his order was being processed. What a beautiful life it was. Checking his watch, he silently cursed as he noticed it was almost noon already. Thankfully, his order was ready, being such a simple dish to make. Taking free packs of barbecue sauce and soy sauce, he paid the cashier ten dollars and seventeen cents- the tax included with the seven dollar meal- and dashed to his car, hurriedly opening the silver vehicle's door. He spun the black steering wheel, and pulled off, going as fast as he could without breaking the limit to the Raccoon Police Department.

"Oh, no!" William gasped as he checked his car's stereo clock. 12:01! He sped down the last road, turning left, and rushing down to Ennerdale street. He likewise sped down that street, pulling to a rushed stop at the Police Department's golden gates. Taking his lunch with him, he ran into the police station, his black boots clumsily clacking with each step. He pressed a button on the side of the gate. "Could you let me in, please? This isn't funny!" the brown haired male complained, hearing a snicker from the other side of the speaker located just above the button. A loud buzzing sound was heard, as Davis quickly opened the golden obstacle. He was now in the courtyard, with the R.P.D's blue door just ahead of him. The courtyard's ground was made of blue granite, and a few black lamps stood up here and there. A construction truck and a couple disused orange cones lay in shambles near the end of the courtyard. Davis opened the large blue doors without giving a second thought to the courtyard he knew so clearly and vividly. The police department's interior was much more amazing than it's three story exterior. A large porcelain statue of a woman holding a vase was in the center of the station. Two ramps surrounded both sides of the statue, leading up to a large, round wooden desk, with three secretaries typing busily on the computers located therein. An emergency ladder could be seen on the balcony on the second story, highlighted in red. A few wooden doors that could be electronically locked were on either side of Davis, with a few more ahead of him, left from the desk and the statue respectfully.

"Look who's late today!" sneered Officer Dorian. "Can't you ever make it to work on time?"

"Hey! I was grabbing lunch! My shift doesn't start until twelve!" William defended himself. He caught Dorian staring down at his lunch with his green gaze. Davis blushed as he saw his lunch had gotten the bottom of the once white bag soggy. Dorian snickered with his signature cackle. His black hair was cut to a mohawk as usual, except he still had the bottom layer remaining upon his head. He wore the same attire as every other officer in the building, and that included William.

"Now, now... calm down, Billy." William turned around to see deputy officer David Ford facing him, his black eyes blazing with scorn at Dorian. He also wore the signature uniform of all R.P.D police officers, except he wore a black cap with the R.P.D logo on it, obscuring his hair from view. "Dorian, don't be scornful just because you failed the S.P.F test last week. One too many donuts doesn't help your cause." With a smirk, Officer Ford looked pointedly at the junior officer's slightly bulging gut. With a flush of indignity, Officer Dorian aimed a punch at Ford's stomach. With only the slightest of gasps, Deputy Ford withstood the attack without moving an inch. _You have to admire that willpower, _William thought to himself. "Billy, there's a meeting going on in the break room. Chief Irons expected us all to be present by twelve... but it appears as though you were late. Let's get a move on," Ford said, walking down the small set of stairs leading to the ground of the R.P.D, on the same plane that the statue was "standing" upon. He walked to a corridor left of the statue, opening the double doors and holding them for a salty Dorian.

"Right! Coming!" Officer Davids shouted, his lunch now wet, sloppy, and ruined. Tossing it sadly into a nearby garbage can, he filled up on a _delicious _packet of soy sauce. As he ran into the double doors, thanking the polite Deputy with a nod, they closed behind him with a _slam_.

"Right..." began the lumbering fat person in front of the officers inside the small break room. There was a glass window behind Chief Irons for requests. Small black chairs were set up along the wall the officers were near, for anyone waiting for a requests or special order of something from the anonymous receptionist. A large bulletin board was on a wall that didn't reach the ceiling farther back into the room, with a door that lead to the briefing room down the hallway. A coffee maker and water machine were standing up on small stools. "As Deputy Ford knows, a new officer will be arriving at the R.P.D sometime soon. We don't know exactly, since he's still undergoing training classes, but it will be by the twenty fifth of this month. So... Marvin Branagh, senior deputy, has something to say." Wiping his face, Chief Irons moved aside, to let a man of dark complexion stand up and speak. He had a buzz cut, with jet black hair. A low trimmed beard was visible on the edges of his face, and he wore the standard attire for the R.P.D, except without the tie and cap.

"Thank you, Irons," Marvin spoke loudly, clearing his throat. Putting his hands behind his back, he started again, "The new officer's name is Leon Scott Kennedy. Since he's a rookie, he may not be very good at what he does, so to calm his nerves, I figured we'd throw him a surprise party!" Deputy Marvin finished his idea, looking around the room, seeing what the other officers would think. With big grins, the officers applauded happily, nodding and murmuring in agreement of the idea. "The party will be held sometime on the twenty fifth. We'll set up the lobby for it, okay?"

"Um... Marvin?" William asked, as the other officers cleared out the room.

"Yes, Bill?" Marvin replied, about to open the corridor to exit the room.

"This new officer... is he younger than me?" William asked, inwardly excited. William was 27, and was the newest officer in the R.P.D. He smiled as he thought of someone he could train and boss around and play pranks on, much like the officers did to him.

"Why, yes actually. We don't have much info on him, but he will be your junior both in age and experience." Without waiting for a reply, Marvin walked out of the room busily, probably about to go on a patrol of Raccoon City, though no violence really ever took place here in Raccoon City. The quaint mid-western town had no reason to cause trouble.

_I know it ended a bit early. I wanted to do more, but I couldn't. So I picked back up in Chapter three. Review please! :3_


	3. The second chapter in the nightmare

_Again, sorry for the suspense. It WILL happen. I'm just waiting for the right moment. I figured I'd build up my only OC in the story, so as to not make a Mary Sue. Or... TRY not to, anyways. So... yeah. Enjoy William. And... he's NOT William Birkin! He's my OC. Coincedentally named "William."_

_Personally, I loved this chapter. A lot of thought a detail went into it. The truck scene at the beginning was a pick up (no tow truck pun intended xD) for me. I couldn't get the story off it's feet and yet I did. Afterward, I figured I'd expand on Brian's character a bit. Make him seem a bit more... sinister. I didn't make him evil enough in the beginning. Granted, as the story goes on, I'll try ot make him as disgusting diabolical as he was in the games. But for right now, I can only let off hints and clues. For those who play RE:2, you'll probably pick up a few references._

_And, yes. I broke the 4th wall with the 'Resident Evil' ringtone. So what? For those who wish to know what it sounds like, it's just the guy saying 'Resident... EVIL' from the beginning of the games. That's all. Oh, and there's a few zombies moaning if you don't pick up the phone soon enough._

_Thanks for reading! Drop a review again if you wish to! I appreciate anything you guys have to say! Anything can go into it. I just don't like gung-ho messages._

_"UR STORY SUCKS I HAET IT GO WREITE SOMETING ELSE CUZ U SUCK LOL. UR STOOPID. CAN U EVIN WRIT SOMETING ELSE? HAHA LOL."_

_Thanks._

September 23rd. 6:32 PM.

**The silver Honda glided through the street.**

It was now after Davis' shift. The streets were darkened and hardly any people moved about it. Above, the heavens were closing, the gray clouds rolling together to obscure the blackening sky. The silver Honda the officer was driving rolled by without a problem on the black tar quietly, only a faint hum being heard. Thoughts rolled through the driver's head, who was still in uniform, driving with both hands, anxious to return home to his wife. What about the rookie officer? That thought seemed to harden itself inside his thoughts, loding there in his mind. Every time he dismissed it by saying, "I'll find out about it soon enough," it would come back less than half an hour later. Not even focused on the road any longer, he drifted off into a comfortable daydream, trying to get a visualization of the rookie. He had been selected for the S.P.F, and would be joining around the 25th. The holster Davis wore containing his Browning HP slid about on the seat next to him, the black leather of it helping to keep it on the gray fur the seat it wore. With an annoyed grunt, Davis bent over to retrieve it before it tumbled to the floor of his car, a hand lazily keeping the car straight. Although just barely. A loud honking noise alerted Davis of danger, as a Taxago tanker truck was speeding down the street toward him.

"No!" William screamed, fighting the instinct to brace himself for the impact that would undoubtedly destroy him and his car. With expert handling, William Davis turned the wheel to the right, making the Honda swerve to the right, back onto the side of the road where he belonged. The truck, barely missing him and connecting with the end of his side mirror, honked angrily as it sped down the road. Davis sat on the side of the road, his car running continously with a hum. His headlights were on, slicing through the inky darkness that had crept upon him. The long road, longer than he realized, stretched out in front of him. Panting, Davis reached a shaking hand up into his rear view mirror, checking to see if the truck had gone yet. It was on its way back to Raccoon City, apparently. With widening eyes, Davis realized he had left Raccoon City. Where was he? He didn't have those fancy electronical map systems like the newer squad cars did. He only had his personal Honda. The officer placed two near limp hands on his steering wheel, gripping it tightly when they were attached.

"Alright..." William sighed shakily. His ultimate mission was to get home. But he had to know something first. Checking the time on his car stereo, he noticed it was now seven o'clock. His wife would have to wait. A black boot stepped on the gas pedal, as he turned the steering wheel left to make a u-turn. Eventually, the vehicle responded, limply moving left, before hitting a large bump and staying in its position. Mumbling a curse, he let down his window and peered out into the darkness. It was a bit hard to see, but the light from the now black sky helped him a bit. He pulled out a miniature flashlight from his utility belt, shining the light down. He noticed a tire had been destroyed with the little stunt he'd pulled. Davis' thoughts snapped back to the tanker. And then the rookie officer. He pulled out a small blue cell phone, engraved with the S.T.A.R.S. logo and a custom 'Resident Evil' ringtone. A very, very nice game. He spoke into the speaker, waiting for a reply. With a flush of embarassment, he realized he hadn't dialed a number yet. With a now steady hand, he entered the digits into the small blue phone.

"Hello?" he asked, waiting for an answer on the other side of the phone. The reciever answered with a gruff tone.

"Jack's towing. Whatcha need?" asked a man who William knew. He usually wore a lumberjack outfit; a red shirt, blue overalls, and brown worker's boots. He had unkept black hair and beer gut that was so large, even Chief Irons looked normal compared to him. _Normal_, not _skinny_.

A hushed laugh erputed from Davis' mouth. Something felt dirty about making fun of someone with such a high authority. But... whatever he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. "Hello? Anybody there?" repeated the voice, an edge of fear creeping into his voice after hearing a soft laugh on the other end.

"Sorry, Jack!" William quickly apologized, not realizing he had laughed on the phone. "I need a towing, please." He knew what the next question would be, but he didn't quite know how to answer it.

"Gotcha. Where ya at, buddy?"

"Uh..." William responded, hoping to buy more time for the conversation that was supposed to have been closed by now. He could have simply said, 'right outside Raccoon City', but Davis had always felt a need to be specific about direct questions. Or, at least ones he knew were simple. Finally, he found his target. The Raccoon City map, or at least a copy of it. Snippets of the original architecture had been cut out and lost somehow. Dismissing the thought, he opened the wide sheet of paper and traced his finger along the orange and green text, a bit hard to see through the black background of it in the darkness. "I'm... outside Raccoon City..." Davis mumbled with a mental sigh. Jack, however, seemed to understand the vague location, as he muttered 'mmhm' and replied with a question.

"So which road you on? The north or south entrance?" The question surprised Davis completely. He knew the police department was in the middle of the city, and his house was to the west of it, a bit above it. But today, he had gone south. For what reason?

"The south, Jack."

"Alright, then! I'll be there in about ten minutes. Don't get bored!" Jack teased, hanging up the phone. Without waiting for any other reason to hang up as well, he flipped the small blue cellular phone down, placing it back on his hip. With a bored sigh, William played with his fingers, tapping them on the black steering wheel. This _did _mean he had some time to think. The time was now seven thirty. He wondered absently how his wife was doing. Was she wondering where he was? He smiled at her beauty... her long, dark hair flowing by in the breeze. Her curves upon her small body. The way she handled herself at Mayor Warren's daughter's party. Mayor Warren cared deeply for his daughter. So much as to give her half of the tax payer's money so she could throw herself a party. A truck roared behind the silver Honda that was parked at an awkward angle. A man in a casual red business shirt and blue jeans came down from the stairs of the tow truck, walking up to the parked car.

"I see your problem," Jack spoke, as a window was lowered to hear him clearly. "You're tire's shot. There's no driving on _that _for a long time. I can offer you a tow, and you can ride in the back. Or I can just impound it until you come and retrive it. It's your choice."

"Nah... go ahead and take it to the lot. I'll pick it up after work on the 25th. We're expecting a new officer, so that'll work fine," William replied with a happy grin, his sandy brown hair swaying as he turned to face Jack.

"Alright, then. I'll hold it up for you. Wanna ride?" he offerred, giving a slight jerk of his head, to indicate he was directing William's head to his vehicle.

"No thanks." It wasn't William didn't want a ride. He just wanted some time to think by himself. Even if that meant walking home. It was only September, how bad could things get?

"Alrighty. I'll be seein' more of ya, I hope?" the trucker asked, walking to his large vehicle. William gave a nod and a wave, as he watched the truck pull his car onto the ramp. He pulled out the R.P.D. jacket he had been given by Marvin for outstanding service as the officer who's only been working at the department for six years. In those six years, William still hadn't done much, but it was at least he had contributed something to Raccoon City. The jacket was a dark navy blue to match the blue of his uniform. It was wool lined around the neck and in the inside. The outside was leather, and on the back was the R.P.D.'s logo, which was a blue emblem with "R.P.D." written at the top, and "Raccoon Police Department" written at the bottom. A single star was in the middle. Then, mentally, he killed himself. He _did _need a ride! His wife was waiting at home! A squad car rolled up on him, honking, as he walked on the side of the large street.

"Need a ride?" asked a familiar face. It was Marvin. And Dorian! And Deputy Ford. Ford was driving; the car was a Sheriff vehicle, outlined in red, black and blue instead of blue and black. Davis nodded vigorously as he opened the back door, hopping in. Deputy Ford made a skillful u-turn, heading back to Raccoon City.

"So how did you know I was here?" William asked, tapping his hands in his lap.

"We got a call from Jack. He said he was concerned about you not having a ride home. Robert Kendo was originally supposed to have picked you up, but he was in the middle of a sale, so we got called. Talk about 9-1-1 abuse, huh?" Marvin chuckled from his position in the passenger's seat.

"Yeah. I see you didn't turn in your uniform when you went home tonight," David mumbled scornfully. Davis somewhat knew this question would get him someday. He never guessed it'd be David Ford harping him.

"Yeah... I usually take my uniform home and wash it. I don't like the community washers at the station..." William coughed out. David could be heard chuckling to himself as he finally reached Raccoon.

"Heh... they're about as desolate as the group showers..." With that joke, the entire group began laughing. When the joy died down, David had already pulled up to the R.P.D. "Hope you don't mind staying in the squad car. We have to get a few things for a patrol."

"No. Actually, I've been meaning to talk to Chief. This was going to be my next stop."

"What about your wife?" Dorian asked with genuine concern. Although he could be a jerk, he still cared. William still worried about her, but assumed she would be alright.

"She should... be okay..." the words stung as the rolled off of his tongue. "But I have to see Irons," William's eyes flared. "There's no way I'm missing a meeting as important as this!" The other officers nodded understandingly, getting out of the car. William's door clicked as he opened it, and slammed when he closed it. Looking at the three story structure in front of him, he hurried in behind the officers, hurrying through the courtyard and opening the large blue doors. The R.P.D. was more mellow during the night, and a lot less officers were present. Without noticing this, he walked quickly into a door left of the entrance. He moved speedily down a hall, and opened an oak door, walking down the narrow white hallway, his boots clicking on the floor. Not even stopping to admire the art near him, he made his way to a big green door. William turned the knob. Locked as walways.

"What?!" came an irritated voice from behind the door.

"Chief!" William replied respectfully. "Can I speak to you for a second?"

"No! Go away, I'm busy!" Inside, Brian put away the knife he used for taxonomy, and his manual for stuffing larger game. He also stored the fresh bottle of malt liquor he had to sneak off to buy. The dim lamp placed upon his now clean desk- the one he was forced to clean- was now the only source of brightness, giving the room a deep, orange and gloomy glow. "O-okay, I'm coming!" Chief Irons stammered, walking over to the door.

"Thank you, Chief Irons." William walked through the door, being stopped when he approached the police chief's desk.

"Don't read anything, and don't look at anything. What do you want?" Irons asked, plopping down in his recliner. Davis dragged a stool from a corner of the room, setting it down at the other side of the desk. Irons intertwined his fingers, placing his elbows upon the oak surface, staring intently in the eyes of Davis. William stared back as best he could... although the shaded brow of his police chief were sinister. The fact that the room was barely lit didn't help, either.

"Well... nothing much. It's just you haven't come out of your office in over three months. We're running low on ammo, and we're finding that maps, important keys, and items required to go into statues and other things have gone missing," William mumbled, putting his eblows on the desk, sitting as upright as possible.

"So? What's that got to do with anything?" Irons retorted quickly, swatting Davis' elbows away. The Chief got a towel and rubbed the spot where William's elbows had been furiously.

"Well... you're the only one with access to said items," William responded, putting his arms on the sides of the blue stool.

"And!?" Irons spat out, standing up with a scowl. William raised his hands in defeat. He always tried to avoid a confrontation at all times.

"It's just, if we need to get to places, we can't. And... Sergeant Neil Carlsen found a document in the Library. Y'know, on the second floor of the R.P.D.? It was signed by you, and it talked about a researcher for Umbrella... William Birkin." The name barely registered in Davis' mind, if only for the fact that they shared the same name. "Doesn't Umbrella make medicine? What're they doing in the R.P.D.?" At this, Irons' nostrils flared, and a look of pure hatred flashed across his face. Slowly reaching his hand down to his desk, his fingers played on that one drawer. The drawer with the Colt Python. One bullet was all it would take. But he couldn't kill William here! There was nothing to blame it on and people would find out. Instead, he withdrew his hand quickly.

"You need to learn how to keep your puppy dog nose out of things it doesn't belong in. I'll deal with Carlsen, and I'll do what I please with the items and ammunition. Leave my office. _Now._"

"Yes, sir!" William saluted. He didn't have to be told twice to leave. He tossed the stool in the corner and almost ran out of the office, slamming the door behind him. The last glimpse of it he caught was Irons watching him leave, with a cold, shaded face. Something about that man was off. Something was... wrong.

_Review, please!_


	4. The third chapter in the nightmare

_I tried. I, too, am subject to laziness. I had to start the zombie outbreak somehow, and this is how it happened. Not much to say on this chapter. But, in the next one, there WILL be action! :D_

_I don't know how Leon and Claire got into the city if it was under military quarantine... :| But, yeah, if I question Resident Evil logic, I'll explode into fail._

_Review please DX!_

September 24th. 1:23 PM.

**William checked over the ammunition cache carefully.**

The large, silver metal container was stocked with older models of R.P.D. weapons, ranging from handguns to assault rifles. Even the old S.T.A.R.S. weapons were in here. With a bit of interest, Officer Davis carefully lifted a small handgun from the bin. He could tell it was a replica of the original handgun, as there was no visible hammer, and the magazine slot wasn't present. The small nametag taped to the side of the eight inch barrel read '_Albert Wesker'_. A few of the other S.T.A.R.S. replica weapons also had the nametags of Chris Redfield, Jill Valentine, Brad Vickers, Joseph Frost, and Edward Dewey. Unfortunately, only three of those members survived to tell the tale of the grisly murderers that occurred in the Arklay Mountains. With a frown, William noticed the guns in this particular cache hadn't been attended to. Not only were most of them empty to begin with, they also locked up; the hammer wouldn't even cock back on the handguns. "What the...?" he rhetorically asked, as a Remington 1700 shotgun was amidst the pile of malfunctioning weapons. The R.P.D. had been suffering a shortage of high power weapons after the disbanding of the S.T.A.R.S. team.

"What're you doing?" asked a cool voice that sounded from behind William. The green glow of the hot bulbs overhead helped to add a quaint feel to the filing room. Metal drawers were lined along reinforced titanium steel shelves, some of them requiring a certain passcode number to open and explore the contents hidden therein. Spinning around quickly, Davis breathed a sigh of relief as he identified the speaker. It was Elliot Edward, standing to the door Davis had entered the room from with a hand on his waist.

"Nothing, sir," William responded quickly, hefting the large and heavy ammo cache with some trouble to set it upon a small table near him. Cocking an interested eyebrow, Elliot floated over to the metal container quickly. He ran pale, skinny fingers over the cold steel of the neglected guns, breathing in their metallic scent. "You see? These weapons haven't been used in... months, maybe years? There're a lot of problems with 'em, and I think they could be cleaned and-"

"No," Elliot cut in quickly, his black bangs draping his eyes mysteriously. The thick mustache that covered his upper lip twitched as he drew in a deep breath. "Chief Irons told Sergeant Carlsen..." he started, exhaling deeply, the smell of barley tea fresh on his hot breath, "...that we are only to use the weapons that are working and functioning. All of the cleaning supplies were moved out of the department yesterday morning."

"But, how do we... no..." was all William could sputter out. A fresh wave of agonizing anger washed over him. "The _only_ weapons we all have... is just our personal handguns! Maybe a shotgun or two... and the S.P.F. have their sub-machine guns... but what if the police station is attacked someday?" To emphasize they had no weapons, William streched an arm out, jerking it toward the shelves of abandoned equipment.

"I don't know. All patrols have been called off today, by the way," Elliot responded cooly, not even fazed by the question his junior posed. "There was a report of a murder just outside of Raccoon, and Irons is taking it 'very seriously'." The officer moved his index and middle finger on both hands up and down to stress his sarcasm. "I don't know. I don't care." The officer fished out a cigarette from his left chest pocket, followed by a lighter. Click. Click. "Oh, come on..." Click. Click. There was no response from the yellow lighter. The orange engravement on it was greasy and smudgy. Williams could only make out '_Biker Boys'_ with the help of the green tone from the lights above. "I just refueled this thing yesterday. It's literally impossible for it to be dry now...."

"Maybe you just overused it?" Davis offered, shrugging casually. "You could always stop smoking. It prevents you from running properly."

"I'd rather not. Anyways, just stuff that cache back where it was and meet us down the hall for some breifing. It's about the murder, so stay sharp." And with that final remark, Elliot Edward vanished from the room, closing the door gently behind him. William Davis simply looked at the ammo cache on the table next to him. All one hundred fifty pounds sparkled in the dim lighting, taunting him to lift it. He stroked his sandy brown hair thoughtfully, playing with a particular strand that decided it wouldn't stay down today. He could always take a gun home and clean it himself. But what purpose would that serve? Chief Irons would probably just ban the use of it anyways. Which was another thing. Irons seemed... sinister. Evil. Wicked. Whatever plug was inserted in the adjective slot to describe him as bad worked. Umbrella had something to do with the R.P.D., which was odd in itself. Last time he checked, pharmaceutical giants didn't collaborate with police departments. Something was amiss, he could feel it. But that something would have to wait until he got time. With a sigh, the officer in sky blue attire hefted the cache in his arms for a full four seconds, before slamming it onto the ground near the open metal drawer where in belonged inside of. After he caught his breath, he lifted once more, plopping the cache into its cold, steel tomb, sliding the drawer shut and electronically locking it. Then, he walked to the door on the side of the room opposite his, and opened it, headed the same way Elliot had a few minutes prior. He walked quickly through the small yellow marble hallway, his boots thudding on the delicate white marble underfoot. Finally, he reached the dark room, opening the large wooden door, only to be surprised at what he saw.

"You made it," said Marvin, leaning back in his chair playing with his yellow wooden number two pencil. A small portable projector sat on the small square table in the center of the stony gray room. There was a water dispensor in one corner, a large storage tote in the other, and a few small lockers in the last. On the projector screen, was a picture that was... was too morbid for words. A teenager, no older than fifteen, was shown torn open. Bits of his skull protruded through his blond head, the white bone clearly visible despite being tinted a reddish color. The rest of his body was ravaged by what looked like what could only done by crows. A large, gaping hole decorated his open abdomen, the teen only in his purple boxers that, strangely, had not been damaged at all. His face was unreadable, as his eyes had been pecked out, and his upper lip had been torn off.

"Aughhh, my jeez-!!" William coughed, feeling as though he were about to throw up his lunch from an unusually empty Grill 13. "What... what is that?"

"It's the murder victim of the copycat cannibals," David Ford answered quickly, his expression bland and unreadable. He walked around the other sitting officers slowly, as if ordering to chime in their input.

"We _think _they're copycats," Ed, a junior officer put in some time after David finished his statement. "They could be the real things. We really didn't get a clear report on whether or not the Spencer estate's area was clear or not. Some of the cannibal murderers could have escaped."

"But the place was blown to bits!" Fred and Arthur, two other officers that handled daily affairs both stood up as they interjected. Ed raised his hands cooly, shaking his head. They both sat down thinking, though to William, all of this seemed frivolous.

"Shouldn't we do something?" he asked.

"What should we do? What _can _we do?" David had stopped in front of the projector, turning it off. It died with a small beeping noise. "This meeting was only to inform you to stay sharp, alright? This murder happened a few days ago, so the murderer may still be at large."

"What's this?" asked Fred, turning up the volume on a small television set that William had not noticed inside the room. It was placed atop the ebony storage tote. The young officer used a small hand to turn up the volume as the news anchor read the telepromter with a bland tone.

_"...and has been placed under strict quarantine." _The words 'Raccoon City quarantined by U.S. government' scrolled by below the female news anchor in big, white letters. _"Authorities say all visitors are to stay out of the vicinity. All residents are advised to stay indoors at all times. If you cannot find a suitable building to hide in, Mayor Warren and police chief Irons have both advised that all refugees flee to the Raccoon Police Department. The pandemic of flesh eating cannibal monsters as some describe them has not reached a critical high, however there are still cannibals lurching in the city. As many as twenty people have gone missing in the last day." _William heard the small blue remote drop with a thud to the ground. A grim silence hung around the room.

"How did we not hear about this?!" Arthur demanded. "I don't watch the news, but someone should have told us! We're the local authorities!"

"Maybe someone chose to purposely withold the information?" David replied, blinking his eyes solemnly, biting the knuckle of his index finger. William felt his stomach doing trampoline flips. What? He couldn't help but laugh right now. Everyone gave him a concerned look. It wasn't so much a happy laugh. It wasn't a pity laugh. It was a, 'I can't believe this is happening, what the fuck is going on' laugh. Eventually he stopped, taking an extremely deep inhale.

"Thoughts?" he asked. The officers in the room shuffled nervously.

"She said people would be coming into the R.P.D. Judging by the atmosphere outside, it isn't all out havoc yet. People can still find comfort in their own homes. I say we remain in the police station and wait it out," suggested Ed, who had been playing with his thumbs.

"No!" Marvin interjected quickly, throwing his arm to the side to exert his anger. "We have to help everyone! Send a patrol out to see who's alive! They won't make it here on their own! William...?"

"I don't know... I don't know..." he chanted quietly. _You have to stay calm and collected! _Easier said than done. "Maybe just one swing around the city? Pick up as many people the 'vans can hold..."

"That's enough," David Ford finished for them. "It's not that bad. As Deputy, I hereby order every officer to stay in the station. We'll worry about the people when this 'pandemic' is full blown. But for now, we don't have ammo to waste should we run into trouble." With his finishing statement, he raised a hand dismissively, and asked Marvin to spread the word around the station.


	5. The fourth chapter in the nightmare

_Alright. I'm gonna come out and say it. I tried. I mean, I hate to overload the story with OC's, but I couldn't find the right canonical survivors to fit my purpose. So... I did what I did. I'm not exactly happy with how this chapter ended up turning out, but I was kind of stuck. So, I did this. But, hey, at least there's action!_

_I'm reading "City of the Dead," and S.D. Perry did a pretty good job with Leon. I just didn't like that the other cops weren't mentioned at all. But, hey, whatever. At least Leon's human again, much unlike his Resident Evil 4 counterpart. Sherry also seems less annoying than she did in Resident Evil 2. She has a thought process. And her randomly running away is actually _explained_. Epic gasp, right?_

_Irons will be in the next chapter, hopefully. I'm trying to find as many anatomically correct toxins as I can to add to the story. You know, to make myself seem smarter? Just kiddin', but I will throw in some lytocane and etofenamate for the infected officers and whatnot._

_Enjoy!_

September 25th. 2:16 A.M.

**Quickly, the silver Honda flew through the empty street.**

William looked around at the chaos that was Raccoon City. Within the time of a few hours, the entire city had sunken into a state of extreme havoc and ruin. The sight of it all was horrific. Although a great remainder of citizens were still alive, Davis could spot out the creatures chasing them frantically, their now rotting hands in the air as if to guide them to their meal. He couldn't exactly make out the expressions on their faces from the position of his car, but he knew it had to be something awful. Hands literally pried to the steering wheel, William attempted to block out the screams of help and the pleas of agony that reverberated off of the empty buildings on either side of the street. Tall apartment buildings and four star hotels that were once hot spots to Raccoon's citizens only three days ago were hollow and stared down ominously at the people running below. "Whoa-!!" Officer Davis screamed, slamming on his breaks as a man nearly careened into his car from blindly running. He was dark skinned, with nicely shaped dreadlocks, and light hazel eyes. The man gave a half-smile to William, as he ran around to the side of the Honda.

"Hey, officer. Mind lettin' me in? City's gone to heck!" he complained. In his left hand, he held a fire axe, while his right hand was propped against the top of the silver car. He wore a black and blue alternately striped tee shirt, with black jeans that had yellow stitching along the sides of the legs.

"Behind you!" William called, whipping out his Browning Hi-Power from his holster on his hip. His right index finger found the trigger and his thumb cocked the hammer back swiftly, as he squeezed. The man ducked at the sight of the gun, his hands atop his head. A .32 bullet exploded from the chamber, puffy white smoke pluming from the barrel, as it caved the head in of the stranger attempting to grab the survivor outside the car. The antagonist's body with half a skull fell down with two plops, then nothing but stillness. William relaxed in his seat, pressing the small button for safety in, locking the handgun.

"Thanks, officer. Can I come in now?" A sarcastic but joking smile played on the man's face, as he stood upright and rested the fire axe upon his shoulder. William nodded, opening the door, disgusted with himself for taking a life so quickly. But... was it even human anymore? As the man climbed into the passenger's seat, he stuck a large hand out. "Name's Samuel. I was on my way to the station, just like everyone else, but I figured I'd see if any of my buddies at the fire department were okay first." Tiredness pooled through his eyes. Must've been a bummer to wake up so early. Or stay up so late. The morning sky was still dark with dusk, stars staring in horror at Raccoon. The streets were still darkened and gloomy, but the screams and fear helped raise the atmosphere.

"Alright, Samuel. My name's William. William Davis. I'm gonna keep looking for my wife, if that's fine with you?" Samuel nodded after William had finished speaking. But was she even still alive? Was she another flesh eating monster as well? That didn't matter. He'd find out when he got there. Determination flowing through his veins, William footed the brake once more, making the Honda spring to life and rush down Ennerdale. Park street wasn't far away. It seemed the farther away he got from the station, the less chaos followed. There were a few blocks where no creatures could be spotted in the darkness, their doors safely locked and boarded shut. Others were already destroyed, the creatures aimlessly roaming about in search for more people to eat alive. _Almost there... I'm coming, honey. Just... just stay alive. _A group of teenagers caught his eye, however, as he pulled up on the curb next to them.

"Officer here to bring us to jail? Or get us to safety?" spoke a taller one, his gray hoodie splotched will small drops of blood. Scorn eminated from his comment, to which William pulled out his handgun, loaded with nine bullets.

"I've got this," he said with a smile. "I'm not here to bother you, just get you to safety. If you all pile up, there should still be room." _What about your wife? Where will she stay? There's four of them! _No time to be selfish.

"No thanks, officer. We can get to the station on our own." A young female with glossy brown hair approached the squad car. She sported a pink silk jacket, with a black singlet underneath, and thin, tight black jeans. "I'm on the track team. _No one_ can catch me."

"Alright," William replied. His human part of him was relieved, since that would leave room for his wife. But the cop side of him felt guilty. If those kids were fast, they could make it to the R.P.D. But... chances are, they won't. But William couldn't force anyone to do anything. "Stay safe. I wanna see you at the station!" With that, William sped off, Samuel waving out of the window. Two more blocks. Two more blocks and he was safe. Park street was right around the corner. Taking his eyes off of the murky road for one second, he looked down, and got most likely the worst scare of his life. His gas meter upon the dashboard showed he was almost empty. _No! _He only had enough to pick up his wife. That was it. He could pick her up, and then run to the station. Or he could park it, pick her up on foot, run back, hop in, drive halfway to the station, and then continue on foot. The latter seemed a bit better. "Samuel, we'll have to park here, alright?"

"Got it. Not enough gas," he responded, his eyes trained on a creature just outside the window, staring at them, wobbling around as if it could fall on the spot. He then clutched his fire axe that was stained with crimson liquid. "Ready?"

"Ready." _Nine bullets. _William's handgun was a Browning-HP, like the other officers' who didn't want the newer VP70 handguns, except different. It was modified to hold the slightly more powerful .32 bullets, but with less magazine capacity, and with proper aiming, could kill anyone with a single bullet. William opened the door first, Samuel following. Samuel raised the axe into the air, bringing it down on the skull of the creature who wore tattered blue jeans and a red business shirt. Probably Jack. It moaned in response, the axe buried deep into its skull. Finally, after a few seconds, it staggered and fell backward onto the hard cement. With a triumphant smile, Samuel removed the axe from the soft, rotting flesh, bits of gray brain pieces clinging to the bladed edge. William nodded, raising his handgun into the air as he jogged through the neighbborhood. His boot clacked on the hard pavement below. The small, one story house he and his wife lived in would finally reveal itself after William turned the corner on the next block. Samuel followed behind with his axe clutched in both hands. Swiftly, Davis took cover behind the side of an empty high school building. He peeked around the corner, his face lighting up as he saw his house in the distance, at the end of the dead ended street.

"Shall we go?" Samuel asked, tapping the bloody fire axe on his trousers anxiously. William nodded, holstering his weapon and lightly jogging down the street. Not much destruction befell the street at all, just a couple of bent stop signs and whatnot. A creature- a zombie- burst through a nearby blue car's door, making William scream. Samuel came from behind and nearly chopped it in half with four powerful swipes of his axe. It didn't even have time to moan before it was dead.

"Thanks."

"No problem," Samuel replied. The duo reached William's house, Samuel standing guard outside. William stepped cautiously into the building, his four inch flashlight not needed, for there was a lamp on in the living room. A familiar face ran in and hugged him, making tears well up into his eyes. He stroked her long, dark hair, before pulling away.

"Rosa, we've got to go!" William pleaded, looking anxiously out the large front window.

"Where?" she asked back, adjusting her white business jacket that covered most of her torso, with a red skirt underneath.

"The station. It's the only place _to _go." He grabbed her hand and hurried her out of the house, sprinting to the car a block away, Samuel ahead of them. His wife had been a reporter at the Newspaper Office a mile or so from where they lived. She, fortunately, had a three day weekend since Ben Bertolucci was covering her story for her. _C'mon, car, show up!_ he silently willed his Honda to appear. And sure enough, it was there waiting for him. The morning darkness began to lighten up into a nice twilight; the sun illuminated the creatures' ghastly features. _I don't have time for this! _Checking that his wife was with him, William cursed in his mind as a group of zombies found their way to the Honda.

"Wow..." remarked Samuel, clutching his axe with tight fists.

"Oh, silly zombies. You weren't there before!" William hissed, pulling out his handgun from its leather holster. _Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, _William counted off the bullets that fired, the cartridges landing on the cement with a _clack_. The zombies were each pierced by the poorly fired bullets, advancing at the trio of humans. _Proper marksman's stance, William! Now is _not _the time to be sloppy! _The R.P.D. officer fixed his pose, standing upright, firmly gripping the wrist of his shooting hand, and focusing his legs for stability. His eyes narrowed, his last three shots concentrated on the four zombies that advanced toward them. Pow, pow, pow! The three bullets propelled themselves into the faces of the zombies, blowing the flesh off of the faces of two, and hitting the third in the throat. They each fell over backward, splitting their heads open. Resiting the urge to puke, Davis fired his weapon again.... only to remember he had no bullets remaining.

"Watch out!" Samuel screamed as the last zombie threw itself at the legs of William. The fireman pushed the officer back, bringing his axe upon the head of the falling zombie like an executioner and decapitating it. A goofy smile formed on his lips as he looked up at both of them, wiping the blood off of his weapon with his shirt.

"Something tells me this is gonna be a _long _night," said William, climbing into his near-dead Honda and driving off backwards to the station.


	6. The fifth chapter in the nightmare

_Again, tried not to be too Sueish here. I prayed to the Litmus gods and my prayers were answered. So, feel free to tell me if you think otherwise. I'll be glad to change it._

_Remembering the RE2-3 locations is quite hard to do from memory, so please excuse me if I get a location wrong here and there._

September 25th. 2:14 A.M.

**A young woman ran quickly to the station as fast as she could.**

The alley she was running through hosted a couple of rottweiler dogs that prowled aimlessly about, sniffing at garbage cans and disposables that lined the buildings on the edges of the alley. _Surely they can't be infected, too. Although, even if they aren't, I don't want to get too close. They're most likely aggressive, and I can't outrun a dog. What should I do? _Cynthia thought to herself. _Why did I not accept that ride from that officer? _But there would be time to kick herself later. Right now, all of her focus should be on getting to the precinct. Alive, and in one piece. The dogs didn't seem to notice her yet. _Can I creep around them? _A moan from behind her broke her thought entirely, as she spun, seeing at least four male zombies stagger towards her with their signature drunken gait. _Oh, really? _Cynthia Fox had a choice. Run through the two dogs, or try to overpower the cluster of male zombies, that probably had more strength than her. _One more block! _Taking a deep breath, she turned and ran right past the dogs with all of her being, her arms pumping, legs contracting, pink jacket flowing by, brown hair bobbing. The dogs didn't pay much attention, though. They didn't seem to have the ability to turn quickly, as they just lumbered around. As she broke past them, paw steps reverberated off of the buildings that lined the alley. A smile played on her face as a solid looking wooden door taunted her ahead. _Never say never._

"Let's go!" she managed to breathe out, the dogs now hot on her tail. Pressing herself faster than she did on the track team, Cynthia's black sneakers barely even touched the ground, nearly floating to the safety of the door. A dog leaped up at her back, and she reflexively reached for the door knob. _I won't have time to open it like that! _Before she even finished the thought, she curled up, sticking her shoulder out, tackling the door and tumbling inside. The dog also fell inside the building just past her, scrambling to its paws. Heart thudding in her chest, adrenaline seeming to overtake her, she got up as fast as humanly possible, slamming the door in the face of the other dog, and spinning around to the rottweiler just ahead of her. It bared it's fangs, lip curled. _Classic attack pose, there. C'mon fido, I haven't got the energy for you. _She ran forward, to which the dog leapt at her, most likely aiming for her throat. Suddenly, the seventeen-year-old spun, doing a juke to the side and narrowly avoiding the death-strike. She didn't have to be told twice to run. A low growl was heard from the hallway behind her as she turned left, leaping out of the L-shaped passage, and slamming the steel door behind her.

"Who are you?" came a panicked voice from in front of her. She was in an abandoned butcher shop; the smell of rotting meat was overpowering. A handgun, she couldn't identify which one, was pointed at her face.

"Derrick!" Cynthia cried, walking slowly up to the injured teen. He was blonde, with a buzz cut, a blood-stained white tee shirt, black jeans and red sneakers. "You're hurt!"

"Yeah... I got shot..." He talked as if it didn't even hurt. "Look, we were wrong. We can't get to the station. We're dead!"

"No, we're not. Look, I'll carry you if I have to." She honestly hoped she didn't have to carry him, though. She wasn't on the muscular side, and it would suck to get eaten for the sake of her wounded friend. "We can make it. It's only been one day. The police will come in a few hours, and we'll both be safe. I promise," she coaxed, her voice tender.

"No, Cynthia. Look, I'm already hurt. _I'll _wait here. But... but you can't. It takes a lot of guts to say this, and I really want you to stay here with me, but please... you have to leave..." His green-ish gaze traveled down to his mid-section, which was still bloody, but the blood was dry.

"The wound has clotted," she pointed out bluntly, following his eyes to the wound he had a large hand over. "Didn't you learn anything from biology? Look, we have to go. _Now._"

"Please! Don't make me beg." The statement wasn't a plea, it was an alternative of saying '_get the heck out_'. Reluctantly, she worked her way to her feet, her tall frame towering above his as he crumpled to the floor. "Do you know how to use a gun?"

"No. Keep it."

"Here, it'll keep you safer. Just squeeze the trigger, there," Derrick motioned to the small fang-like piece on the gun, "and the bullet will come out. Like in the movies."

"I haven't watched many action movies. I'm into... more... y'know, intelligent stuff. Sorry."

"Then hope you never have to use it. There's seven rounds in there.... Be careful... and..." _I love you. _That's all that sentence was missing, for it to be mushy romance goth novel material. "Everyone else is dead. Now, go!" _Oh. That works too, I guess._ Cynthia made her way to the sliding front door, shooting a glance back at Derrick, who was collapsed on a wall, looking at her, watching. She gave him a final nod, before opening the door, going back out into the streets. A zombie was waiting for her outside the R.P.D. building, sitting there, watching her with barely visible pupils. _What is this? _She walked left, and it staggered left, then stopped a few feet from where it was before. She moved right, and again, it moved closer. It was now five feet from her, reaching out with one hand, moving quickly. She ran left quickly, effectively dodging it as it reached after her in a futile attempt to catch her. She couldn't resist taunting it as she ran to the police department, a few other people banging on the gates to be let in. The zombie stayed where it was in front of the butcher shop, walking around blindly.

"Let us in!" she yelled, and her call was answered, as the huge golden gates flew open, people pouring into the courtyard like mice. _Derrick... we were right here. Why...? _Was all she could think, shooting a glance at the sliding door. Then, it hit her. The wound had bled far too much for it to have been a bullet. Only something that could've gotten down, deep into the flesh could have produced that much blood. _A bite. _He was infected, and he didn't want to bring it into the station, where everyone else was. He'd wait until a few hours from now, and hope the police could catch him before he turned. The cold steel of the gun was all she had to remember him, a testament to his noble sacrifice. She turned, and made her way to the courtyard, as the gate slammed shut.

"Ruth Sanders, you've done it this time," said a young woman who was patrolling the streets. Her medical kit was firmly propped up near her rear, held there by a white waistband. Inside was everything she'd need to help- not cure- possible infected. Her white jacket and baggy red jeans ruffled lightly in the wind. The black, and unfitting, kevlar vest with the Umbrella logo on the back held down her white jacket for the most part, but the tail of it hung down loosely down to her calfs. "Yup, U.B.C.S. medic Ruth Sanders, reporting for duty." The U.B.C.S. had sent her and her squad into the city before the actual soldiers flew in so she could treat as many survivors as she could with distraction. But, aren't zombies distractions? Something told her they just wanted them gone. Her H&K USP that was holstered on her thigh only had a full clip; sixteen rounds. She heard it took around six or seven to take one monster down, and she wasn't the best of markswomen. Low moans could be heard throughout the large street she slowly strolled through, and the zombies slid in and out of the shadow of morning. The sun was just barely coming up, trying to lighten up the city, but utterly failing. Ruth snatched her radio from the black vest anxiously, clicking it on.

"Yes...?" came a reply as static could be heard from both ends.

"How are you doing? You there yet?" Ruth asked the fellow medic, wondering anxiously if she had yet made it to the precinct as ordered.

"No, couple zombies giving me trouble. Why, you?" her superior answered nonchalantly. Sanders bit her lip.

"I'm a bit lost, here. I'm near Ennerdale, I can feel it. Some restaurant, Grill thirteen, it's up the street from me right now."

"Alright," a few gunshots echoed in the background, "keep going forward, and make a run through a narrow alley. After that, you should be in a garage or something. The station isn't far from there. Look, I've got to go, no time!" The radio fizzled out shortly after. _She's probably up a creek without a paddle. I won't bother her any more. _Ruth thought innocently, though she didn't release her lip. Her shortened black hair blew by in the breeze that came by stiffly. _I'm twenty three. It's time to start acting like it! _But, that aching dread that turned her stomach was still there. She didn't want to be alone, because she felt so vulnerable. Dodging zombies all the time like that won't work forever. She wasn't an athlete, and she was really clumsy. Because of this, her superiors didn't like her much at all. If she didn't have such a grip on pharmaceutology and virology, she'd be fired. She hated virology, though, because of the chemicals and the labels some idiot gave them. Ruth took her hands from behind her back, and walked as toughly as she could down the large street.

A discarded wheel fell over from its perch leaning against a brick wall, making Ruth scream, her hand darting to her handgun. _Just a wheel, girl. Get a grip. _Sighing in relief, a few moans leaked out of the shadows, telling her to hurry up. Fighting her stomach churning fear, she made her way to an industrial looking door, swinging it open, and slamming it behind her. She collapsed to the floor, knowing instantly where she was. The room was T-shaped, with a crate hanging above the walkway to the exit. On the other side, there was a small flight of stairs that led to an elevator. _Soon. I can go soon. Just the car garage, and then... and then a few alleys, and then the precinct. _Ruth stood up, walking cautiously at first, then stepping it up, bursting into a light jog. She hoped the crate wouldn't fall on her, and after she passed, she opened the door ahead and ran into the car garage. She ran past a room with a black typewriter and an ebony trunk, stepping lightly into the next room, a large garage where cars were, apparently, still being worked on.

"Come where I can see you," said an unfriendly voice somewhere ahead of Ruth. She complied, her black boots making the slightest noise on the cement. The voice belonged to a grease and blood-stained man, who was in his late forties, holding a large shotgun, most likely a Remington of some sort. She just stared absently at the double barrel, wondering it he would pull the trigger. "Oh, you're human. Well, I guess I can trust you. What's with your outfit?" A smile erupted from Sanders' face as she put her hands behind her back nervously, her small frame swaying slightly.

"I work for the U.B.C.S., and I'm trying to get to the precinct. My name is private Ruth Sanders, of the medic corps. Are you injured?"

"Yes, actually. I got bitten right on the shoulder, here. Name's Michael, by the way." Ruth nodded, absently processing the seemingly trivial information, as she hurried toward him. He sat down on the hood of a car, his tool splayed out sloppily not too far from where he was. A corpse, most likely infected, sat grotesquely against a wall, blood just behind her, smeared about. Her eyes gazed off lifelessly, her brown hair covering her forehead, clotted in knots with sticky crimson. Ruth snapped her focus back to Michael's shoulder. He removed his leather biker jacket, exposing the wound.

"It's not too bad," she comforted. A couple chucks of meat were gone, but it could simply be bandaged. She reached into her medical kit, taking out a jar of lidocane, putting the greasy stuff on the hood of the car. "Hmm... does it hurt when you flex?"

"Yeah, kind of." _Must be joint pain._ She grabbed a bottle of etofenamate, in case it wasn't just from the wound.

"I want you to swallow these pills, while I rub this on, alright?" Michael nodded, as he was handed the etofenamate pills, both big as a cockroach. "This may sting a bit. It's lidocane, but it's kind of like vaseline. It's for burning, itchy, or otherwise painful skin. I've never used it on a wound before, but this is the best I've got besides bandages." It most likely wouldn't restore the flesh, but it could at least relax him, with no side effects. Michael nodded, and downed the dry pills, coughing exaggeratedly afterwards. He made a 'yuck' face that was dissolved after the lidocane was applied. "I said it would sting, didn't I?" _Almost done. _She took a roll of adhesive bandages, and wrapped them around his shoulder twice, before cutting the remainder with a pair of small scissors. "All done!" she coaxed, allowing him to get up.

"Still stings, but it's much better. Beats taking pain killers, that's for sure," Michael responded, pulling himself off of the hood of the car with his bad shoulder.

"Careful! You'll open the wound. Where are you headed? Surely you can't stay here."

"It's safe here. If the department gets attacked, everyone's dead. I'd rather be here by myself than die with everyone else," he groaned, shrugging casually.

"But what if they come for _you_? Then what?"

"Then I guess it's over. But I've got things to fight them with. Good luck getting to wherever you were going. Sorry, but I'm not coming," he stated bluntly, leaning against the door of an elevator that wasn't working, watching her. After she didn't move, watching him back with a look that spelled concern, he said, "Well? Go on ahead."

"After I treated you?" Although it was her job to heal the wounded in the city, he didn't know that, and she could use it to guilt him into coming with her to the precinct. She didn't want to go alone.

"Alright, fine. But the second something breaks loose, I'm out." She smiled, and prepared to say something like 'nothing will happen', when he cut in again, "Don't tell me you're headed to the department." Ruth nodded. With a noisy sigh, he picked up his shotgun, and prepared to walk out of the garage. "Then you'll need help, I guess."


	7. The sixth chapter in the nightmare

_Awesome. I love how the last two chapters came out. I'm quite proud of myself, really. Thanks for reading, and don't be scared to review! Unlike zombies, I don't bite._

September 25th. 6:30 A.M.

**William scoped through the S.T.A.R.S. office, taking what he could find.**

He felt dirty for doing it, but it had to be done. By now, he knew each of the former S.T.A.R.S. members by name, and a few of their desk locations. For two teams, the second story office was unnaturally small. How they all managed to fit inside was a mystery. Large, white walls hung over the room at all corners, a bland decoration for such an important room. Papers were scattered on the hardwood floor, but one desk was messier than the room itself. _Chris Redfield. _A gun locker was right next to the door William stood at, the entrance, locked casually. He didn't have a lock-pick or anything, so it would be nearly impossible to open it and retrieve the contents inside. _Unless I shoot the lock. _But what if the bullet ricocheted and hit him in the head? _The walls would absorb the impact. _But the expensive looking radio set in the back- their only way to call for help- surely would not. _Then be careful. _His mental argument was concluded, as his common sense prevailed. The desk next to the one with the boyish mess was a bit more organized, but various gun replicas and other whatnots were scattered about. _Barry Burton. _The desk right of Chris' caught his eye, though.

"Jill Valentine," he read the nametag, the walls echoing the name back to him in a hushed whisper. "The Master of Unlocking." An unfinished sandwich was on her desk as well, crumbs splayed out near it. Davis checked the drawer highest on the desk, only to find that it was locked. All of them were. _Alright. Aren't there _any _weapons here? _No. He made his way to the desk on the farthest side of the room, tracing a line in the willow surface. _Rebecca Chambers. Field medic. _He opened some unpackaged boxes quickly, shuffling around in them. A few adhesive plasters, gauze pads, health drinks, the usual. A first-aid kit was propped against a wall. Three first-aid sprays were boxed inside of said kit. "Bingo!" William smiled, taking the kit in one hand, handgun in the other. The infected had not reached the R.P.D., which in itself was a good thing. Now that he had the kit, he felt invincible. _Bring it on, infected._

The fork hit the empty porcelain plate with a _clang_. "I am _stuffed_," said a man reclining in a wooden chair. Steven Thomas had just finished eating his premium steak quarters and mashed potatoes, all paid for by Umbrella, when he decided to take a look outside from his one story house. It wasn't hit, but it was part of his facade. He was instructed to play the role of any normal survivor, wait around for the U.B.C.S. soldiers, and record the battle data. Being an Umbrella spy was harder than being James Bond. At least he had all the right equipment. All Umbrella had managed to provide for him was a fake Raccoon City driver's license, a typical combat knife that would do about as much damage as a gust of wind, and a meal. To survive a week in such harsh conditions was stretching his luck, big time. _Alright. Let's go over our story, shall we? _He was a man from Alabama, who'd come to Raccoon as a tourist. He'd gotten the driver's license, for identification and driving purposes. _That doesn't explain why the heck I couldn't just bring my Alabama license, but whatever. _Shortly after, the outbreak hit, and he was forced to take refuge in the department. The red-draped table of the empty and bloody building seemed to be the only colorful thing left standing that didn't spell death. The portable transceiver attached to his waist beeped once.

"You have ten hours before the deployment of U.B.C.S. soldiers. Get your story straight, a be at the precinct before initial drop-down. Understood?" asked a cool voice on the other end. The man who he knew as 'The Anonymous' always wore shades, and had proven a valuable asset to Umbrella. Rumor has it, it's actually former S.T.A.R.S. captain Albert Wesker, though this was proven untrue a few months ago. Still... "Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Without a reply, the small cell phone device blinked red and shut down. He couldn't contact anyone, they could only contact him. A low moan rose up from behind a table feet from where he stood. _Steven Thomas, close combat expert, at your service, sir. _Although he'd have liked to get his hands on a CQC _weapon _like a .50 AE Desert Eagle, or a .357 Colt Python, his combat knife worked just fine. The report said these 'GMC-1s' as labeled by a unofficial science paper in Umbrella's labs were hard to kill. _Zombies. _Whatever they were, they were T-Virus carriers. The woman from behind the table looked through him with a translucent gaze of hunger, her hands in the air. Her flesh was torn open, but it wasn't rotting, so she must have been infected recently. Steven clutched the knife, pointing the blade downward with his gloved hand on the butt, preparing to slice her throat, until she lunged at him. Reflexively, he shot a sneaker into the air, making her fall to the side and stay on the ground for a few moments. Without giving her a chance to recover, he shanked her many a time, through whatever exposed part of her he could find. Finally, after about thirty stabs, she stayed on the ground, in a pool of her own blood. _If you can call it a her. _But she was once human. _But she's not anymore. Get to the mission coordinates._

"Incompetent losers, those Umbrella lot are..." his Canadian accent overpowered him for a second. His checkered jacket and brown slacks hugged his body tightly. Mobility was a slight problem, but it fit his southern mask. His accent didn't. And he highly doubted Alabamans spoke any French. The southern accent was too much to master, too much for even himself. If it came down to it, he could simply kill off any cops or survivors inside the precinct and monitor the U.B.C.S. soldiers himself. But no one should ask too many questions. Even if he was blatantly lying, all their focus would be on was surviving. With a gusty sigh, he stepped over the fallen body, eyeing his knife warily. If he encountered a group of zombies, he was royally screwed up the butt. The smell of rotting flesh hit his nose harder than it did inside the restaurant as he stepped outside. He was told to leave his survival pack back at base, so he couldn't wear the gas mask therein. Hoping he could find a more... competent weapon, Steven power-walked to the bookstore a few blocks west, knife in both hands.

Ruth ran for her life. Not only were a pack of dogs chasing her down the street, but were also a murder of crows. They cawed a deathly call to her. _Run, or we'll get ya! _Michael wasn't as fortunate as she was. When he got out into the main street, a pack of dogs were prowling around a fallen bus. Even with a shotgun, he was outnumbered and overwhelmed and was eaten. Ruth had forgotten to close the gate-door behind her, allowing the dogs to give epic chase. Along the way, she also dropped her handgun in fear, as she tried to fire but the recoil made it slip from her hands. _No one is gonna save you now, girl. You have to be strong. Michael is dead, but you can still make it. The precinct is just up ahead. _Although her thoughts didn't sound convincing, she still ran, seeing a door right up ahead. A fire hose was bolted to the wall straight forward, but it wouldn't help her anyways. She couldn't _hose _the infected dogs down, could she? Running in zigzags to prevent from being torn apart, Ruth reached the door, tackling it open and slamming it closed.

"No..." she cried, remembering Michael's face, his twisted lips, his eyes rolling in the back of his head. _If it makes you feel any better, he most likely died from the trauma before he got ripped apart. _No, it didn't. He was dead. The one she healed, tried to bring to safety. The one she failed her job with. She was no medic, she was... was just a civilian that knew a lot about herbs and such. _Why? Why did I enlist on the U.B.C.S.? Was there a point, if this is all I'm gonna see? _A fresh tear rolled down her cheek, as she silently sobbed. _I even lost my handgun, my last defense against these monsters. I'm... I'm gonna... I'm gonna die. _She sniffled, rocking back and forth in a small ball, her legs drawn up to her chest. A _bang _on the door made her rocket to her feet. _You will if you don't move. Now is not the time to feel sorry for a man you just met. Now is the time to survive. Your orders were to make it to the precinct, girl. _No. No more orders. Ruth decided she was done. It's not about orders anymore. It's about living. Or... trying to. She had to make it to the precinct because she _needed _to, not because some... mean old hag told her to, from the safety of an office building.

"Gotta go!" she called to no one at all, feeling better all of a sudden. The hope that she would live, that she would survive. She darted away, barely taking in her surroundings. A blockade was on the other side of her, barring her from a direct line to the police station. She'd have to take a detour, the door next to her. Ruth kept running, swinging the door open. One zombie stood and waited for her sourly, moving on wet feet. She screamed, frozen. It wasn't like the other times. She had a handgun, at least, if worse came to worst. But she was defenseless, about to be eaten. _You didn't expect it to be all clear, did you? You're small- he's big! _Thanking her tough mental voice for its encouragement, Ruth took a running-duck, barely escaping the grasp of the tall zombie, her heart literally drumming a beat on her ribs. _Yeah! You did it, girl! _Running quickly through the alleyway, she reached a door, opened it, and nearly screamed at what she saw. A monster. She barely saw much of it, but it was big and green, with six legs, and red tumors surrounding its exoskeleton. It didn't notice her, and crawled to the top of a building absentmindedly.

"Freak," she hissed under her breath, opening the door at the end of the small walkway, and coming out in the front street of the R.P.D. Police officers adorned in blue were directing the way for barricading, and others escorting citizens that had survived. _Thank you! Oh, yes... _Ruth felt relief wash over her, sending a happy shiver through her skin. By now, she was ready to collapse, but she figured she'd at least help heal some people first. _No... I need to sleep._

Cynthia felt a fresh wave of dread wash over her, as she scanned the faces in the precinct. _No Derrick. Face it, he's dead. _She could sneak out, and go and see him? _That's just stupid. Why? So I can go and get attacked by him? I can't even shoot a gun. _Officer Davis, after finding medical supplies, had asked anyone above sixteen to come to the shooting range on the third floor. Not only were her finger muscles not strong enough to pull the trigger quickly, but she couldn't shoot for crap. Her dummy target paper guy thing didn't have a single hole in it. So, Fox decided to give her gun that she _still _couldn't identify by name- to her, it was Handgun- to a more deserving twenty-year-old hunter. She'd walked back down into a lobby with not as many people as she had expected, and collapsed near the ashen statue. What good would she be, if she could barely do anything? She could run and dodge zombies easily, but that was a personal asset, not one everyone could share. Or was it? She could show everyone how to dodge! But no one was in good shape like her. They could barely run a mile without collapsing; she could run seven without a problem. She always won first place track medals every year in the one hundred meter dash. Her P.E. teacher always commented on how well she could run, though she needed more meat on her. _And now he's dead. _Still... the thought of seeing Derrick again really appealed to her. But the thought that the zombie may still be waiting for her didn't.

"Cynthia? Cynthia Fox?" asked a mysterious voice in front of her. She looked up, noticing she was staring at the midsection of the guy she used to hang out with, Harry Spiller. She gave him a faint smile, standing up past the fifteen-year-old.

"Harold," she replied, hugging him and clinging to him. "How'd you manage to survive?" He flashed a small pocketknife, about the size of her index finger. His small hand clutched it tightly, his jaw closing and defining through his tan skin. "I see." She wondered if she should have saved the Handgun for him? It certainly wouldn't be too late to get it back. "How can you shoot?"

"I can't," he admitted, shuffling in his blue jeans, wearing a pink blush. "I only hit a few targets, and my fingers are too small to squeeze the trigger right. How 'bout you?"

"I suck, too," she laughed smoothly. _Oh, you flirt. Laughing like that. _What? She was _not _flirting! "So... uh... yeah..." They both looked away. _Now is not the time for this! _Something in her knew she was flirting with him, but the other part of her was correct. The living dead was waiting just outside to eat her -and his- flesh. "We should prepare." The statement was more blunt and hurtful than what she actually intended it to be. Harry looked away, adjusting his baggy hoodie and even baggier jeans, nodding cooperatively.

"A-alright, then. I'll... uh, see you around?" It was the dumbest question Cynthia had heard all night. But it was so goofy she couldn't help but laugh. Where else could they go? He must have realized what he said, because he blushed harder and slid away with a goofy 'goodbye' wave. She waved back with a grin, exhaling. Derrick had been with their posse as well... what did he say? The others were dead. _Why did I not accept that ride from Officer Davis? The man had a _gun_. Stupid! _A group of stranger burst through the front door, one of them bitten. _No... no, no, no! If he's bitten, he'll give the infection to us, and we'll be screwed! _The thought made her heart catch in her throat. The man had actually been bitten in several places. Chief Irons and Mayor Warren stumbled out from somewhere in the hiding places, probably the garage somewhere, and came running to the man.

"Is he bitten?" Irons asked, feigning concern, though Fox knew better. One of her friends had been a witness in the rape charge against him, though he managed to slip the case somehow. He was a greedy bastard. "We'll have to get him to safety, isn't that right Mayor?"

"Oh, yes, yes! That is indeed correct!" the politician chimed in, like a slave to the police chief. They both had bad blood since Irons had tried to run for mayor a little bit back, but Warren knew his limits. If he said the wrong thing, Irons would no doubt kick him out. They both walked with the survivors to a back room somewhere, the door closing. One particular female caught her eye, though. Long black hair, short frame, white jacket, red jeans, and a black vest with an Umbrella logo on the back. She turned to face Cynthia, staring her dead in the eye, though not in an unfriendly way. Her eyes were clouded with anxiety and tiredness, as she lumbered past to try to find somewhere to rest. The urge to confront her was dominant in Fox's mind, though she barely fought it down. She didn't want to disturb her if she needed rest, and chances were, she'd been through hell.

"Ask me anything." Cynthia jumped, and made her way to the small woman older than herself, sitting down next to her. She didn't seem hostile, just afraid and nervous and angry.

"What's your name? I'm Cynthia. Fox," she added quickly. Umbrella was the world's leading pharmaceutical giant, meaning they most likely had a connection to someone that could get the suitable help. She didn't want to leave out any details.

"Ruth Sanders. Sorry, but there won't be much help besides the police force. A couple of my comrades, the U.B.C.S., will be touching down soon, but seeing all the ruin this place is in for, I doubt they could do much." Cynthia flinched at how blunt that statement was. No help. The words echoed through her brain, making her shoulders sag as she drew her legs closer to her body. "Didn't mean to be blunt, girl."

"S'okay." _What was okay? That you thought it was all over, or that there will be no help for you? _"I... didn't get my hopes up, anyways. I just hope there'll be an evacuation..." Scavenging around a police station will surely rack on your nerves, knowing that the place most people hated to be was a safe haven.

"I did. That's why I joined the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service as a medic, so I could restore the hopes of others. But... I failed at that too... Michael..." Ruth whispered with tears forming in her eyes. She obviously needed sleep badly, so Cynthia left her alone and paced absently around the station, hoping something good would happen for once.


	8. The seventh chapter in the nightmare

September 26th. 4:30 A.M.

**William waited idly, gun in hand.**

"Is everyone ready for the patrol?" he asked the small crowd of survivors near him. Soon, they'd be going around clearing out any infected that had somehow wandered into the station. A few managed to break through the windows on the higher-up floors and in the back of the station, and got many officers in turn. But, with proper strategizing, they could be taken care of. Exterminated, like the monsters they were. _But, they were still human, don't forget. If Rosa had been infected, would she a monster as well? _That was a question Davis could not come up with an answer to. His attention snapped back to reality as he looked over the group. Ruth Sanders the medical expert, David Ford the strategizer, Marvin Branagh the combat expert, Samuel the melee specialist, Norman Whittaker the rookie game hunter, Fred the officer, and the new survivor. The one that made William's blood curl.

"Yeah, I'll be going by myself, if you don't mind." The voice came from Steven, the Arkansas tourist, though many things seemed amiss about him. By the way he held his handgun in the air to avoid friendly fire, he obviously had some military or police force training. He was also too cool in a given situation. The man was _too _professional. Marvin gave him a nod of approval, and without a reply, Steven sped off to wherever.

"Wait!" came a frantic cry from someone William hadn't realized was even there. A teenager, no older than thirteen, in a baggy gray hoodie and _really _baggy black jeans. He was really short though, only about five feet, give or take. "I don't have a gun!"

"Oh," William replied, thinking. They'd given their weapons to those who knew how to handle them. There were a few melee weapons lying around, but they were in bad shape. Zombies took much effort to kill, Samuel confirmed this much. If one were in a tight situation, and the weapon broke...

"We could make you one!" Everyone's heads swiveled to Cynthia Fox, who came walking over in a trot. She smiled hopefully, raising her shoulders. William only cocked an eyebrow as Marvin spoke.

"Alright. What do you suggest we give him? We don't have the materials to make a real gun..." the teenaged boy looked down, putting small hands in his pockets. Cynthia pondered for a second.

"Hmmm.... I'll go with him. Irons has a few spare hunting rifles, I'm sure."

"A Springfield M1903 to be exact. Near his office. It's not loaded or anything, though, and the ignition stuff was removed. Someone must have been doing some work on it before the pandemic," Fred suggested, his gun at the ready.

"Nitrocellulose. It's the ignition powder. And we can probably make some darts with... some scopolamine and metapyraline, maybe?" Everyone else shrugged. William had no idea what those things were, but... hey.

"Worth a shot. Want some-" Marvin was cut off, as a large _ka-poosh _was heard distantly. The entire group raised their weapons in a ready stance, looking around frantically. "Must've been the garage door, everyone get out there! William and I will be one team, Fred and Ruth will be another, Samuel and Norman, and David... you can handle yourself?"

"Of course. Follow me!" David replied, briskly trotting off into a large solid oak door, and disappearing with Samuel, Fred, Ruth, and Norman. William started walking off, when a large dark hand touched his shoulder.

"Wait, William. For now, we'll have to split up. There's a priority that has to be attended to, but it has to be done now. Otherwise, it'll be too late." William started to ask what was going on, but was quickly silenced with a glance. "Take these, and watch yourself." Marvin opened a pouch on his utility belt, and pulled out a red box. _Bullets! _He handed them to William. _Marvin... where are you going? _Davis nodded, and reluctantly watched the senior officer jog away.

"Come on!" Cynthia hissed quietly, waiting for her out-of-shape friend to catch up. "The garage has already collapsed, do you want us to be next?" Harry held up a thumb jokingly, though at a crucial moment. They were in the hallway just beyond the receptionist's room, and it was a long, spacious blue tinted hallway. Two zombie officers waited for them at the end, as their aimless wet sloshy feet could be heard. Apparently. the couldn't hear well, because Harold was plodding through the hallway as if he _wanted _to be caught. _Hurry up and find this office! _She grabbed his hand, and pulled him further down the hallway. The two zombies' heads inclined in their direction, their jaws hanging gruesomely open. An eyeball was missing from one, and the other had multiple bullet wounds. Bullet cartridges lined the hallway sloppily. "Someone's been through here. I'm hoping they made it out alive."

"Yeah. Shall we?" he responded, pulling out his switchblade eagerly. It was so small, it would certainly get them killed. She frowned as she looked at it, and raised an eyebrow at him. _What good is that? What could it do? I suppose if we keep going straight... _"Look out!"

"Ah-" was all Cynthia said, before she turned around and noticed the pale face of the zombie just above her. It's jaw was broken, but it somehow needed to feed. She caught it's arms just in time to stop it from connecting to the side of her neck, but not for long. For a dead person, this one was incredibly strong. "Hah-help!" she cried to Harry, who stood like a deer in the headlights. Dumbfounded and wondering what he should do. Trying to push the thing off didn't help at all. _This can't be it! Harry, help me, you jerk off! _"Harrry-!!" Her cry was met with an answer, though not from him. He stood there like a statue.

"Hold on, kid, I'm coming!" Three shots, four, five, six, seven, and the zombie gave a final gasp, then collapsed. The other zombie was already dead, laying face first in the hallway's marble floor. The stranger, a man in a plad blue shirt and brown slacks, bent down slightly checking her over. But... the way he checked her over was strange, to say the least. A normal person would feel for bruises, which were there, but... he touched her as if she were an object instead of a human being. "You're not a carrier," he mumbled, biting the tip of his thumb anxiously.

"No... I'm not..." Cynthia responded, shaking her head warily at the man. _Who's scarier? The man or the zombies? _Does it matter? _This man just saved you. Thank him. _"Than-"

"No thanks necessary. Be careful." He popped a magazine out of his semi-automatic, slapped a new one in, and briskly walked off. She exchanged a look of worry with Harold. _Harold!_

"Why did you not help me!?" she screamed, hoping to shatter the windows next to them with her rage. He backed up as though she held a gun to his face, a look of pure terror welded onto his young features. "I could've been zombie chow if that man hadn't come saved me! What were you _thinking_!?"

"I wanted to do something, I swear, I just froze up, I can explain!" Harold stammered in one whole breath, his hands submissively in the air. She angrily snatched his switchblade that was held between two of his fingers, and stormed off.

"Shame. A woman can do more with this than you can. Look, wait here, and I'll be back with your gun, alright?" Before she entered the solid wood door on the other side of the L-shaped hall, she shot a look back at him. Still, that pathetic look. It only kindled her fury farther, burning it like an fiery storm.

"All by myself? I... what? Please, no! Fox, please!" Her nostrils flared at his last comment. Pathetic. She expected him to be her backup, her cover, but no. Even when he was _armed _he was useless.

"I'll be right back." The comment was harsh and brisk. To the point. He gave her a defeated nod, and sat down in the corner of the hallway, as she closed the door behind her.

Steven walked quickly and briskly down the hallway. _No initial battle data there. I already knew the zombies were useless, but I figured if I could obtain something useful, that'd land me a couple hundred at the very least. _Where were those Ma-39s and the Hunter series, anyway? Were they being deployed to the R.P.D.? If so, Steven would have to be even more careful. The zombies were annoying, but they were dangerous. The close encounter with the girl had told him that much. She didn't have the virus in her, so that doesn't explain why the zombies want to eat anyone who isn't involved with Umbrella in any way. The boys down at Red Umbrella said they'd cover for him should trouble occur, but how did they know where he was? There was no way they could be tracking him.

"Hmph," he said to himself, not expecting a reply. He was in foreign territory, and the Reds were fronting for him. Hyping him up. Surely that Ada lady would've been better for this? Deciding now was a good time, he sat down and checked over all of his weapons. _Grapple gun, check. M92FS, check. Herbicidal ingredients, check. First aid spray, check. _He was glad he'd dumped the combat knife and had taken the gun from Davis, because he'd have to go deeper into the station, down into the place where the Plant 42 series were located. _And the V-ACT zombies, and the Re3 series. The _super _Re3 series, mind you._

"Freeze," came a voice that echoed cooly off of the library's large walls. Cold metal touched the back of Steven's head. He was facing the huge double doors on the bottom floor, hoping to get to the wooden balcony on the top.

"Yes?" he asked calmly, not at all intimidated. Though he was. His heart began racing laps in his chest. The gunman obviously either wasn't fooled, or got angry at his feigned calmness.

"Don't act so smug. I know who you work for. Drop your weapon, and put your hands in the air." _Really? In a place infested with zombies? Is that such a good idea? _Steven spun around suddenly, gaining enough momentum to make the bullet barely miss his skull. He didn't have time to grab the weapon; the gunman, Deputy Ford, was incredibly skilled and had the VP70 pointed at him again in less than three seconds. He, too, had his Beretta trained on the officer, his hand resting lightly on the trigger. His eyes narrowed, his free hand raised slightly to show he didn't want to, but would shoot if forced to. Both of David's hands were on his gun, and his jaw clenched suddenly.

Steven shot. The first bullet hit him square in the abdomen, near the liver. The other went high and hit the top of the massive ceiling. The officer cried out in pain, clutching his stomach as sticky blood oozed out. _Great. If he gets out alive, I've just blown my cover. Well, I've blown it anyway. I'm no good at this. _Shoot? Or let him live? It was entirely up to Steven. He staggered backward, shooting a glance at the door, and the dying officer back and forth. Finally, he made it to the door, and rushed through. David was on the floor, sweating, trying not to cry out, as he held his stomach and tried to prevent the blood from coming out.

Ruth watched the way Fred handled the gun. At every corner, he jumped out, ready to shoot at anything. _A true professional, I'm sure. _She held the gun at eye level, hoping to blow a zombie's brain apart for what they did to Michael. They were in a hallway, with thick glass windows on either side of them. The floor was hardwood, and a large, steel door was at the very end. A shortcut to the garage, that should be barricaded on the way back. "Fred... are you ready?" Her tan skin was now beaded with sweat, her hair clumping together slightly.

"Aw, shucks, now you're making me all nervous. But, yeah, I'm ready," he joked, trying to keep his breathing steady. The only sounds that were made as the duo traveled down the hallway were their boots stepping lightly on the wooden floor. Suddenly, the windows imploded, sending a spray of glass shards at the two. Ruth cried out frantically, as her skin was assaulted violently, cuts appearing and glass embedding itself into her. Fred wore thicker equipment, however, but the effect was mostly the same. Despite the searing pain, she held her handgun up to the inky darkness of the broken window nearest to her.

"Fred..." she said faintly, almost a whisper. What should they do? Get to the garage? Or investigate? "...Let's get to the garage." He nodded, but simultaneously, a trio of dobermans erupted from the blackness. She gasped, duck-rolling left, and getting up, pointing her weapons at her antagonists. _Michael! These are the same ones! _The ones she escaped from without a scratch last time. Without waiting, she fired three shots, each one finding their targets. But, the dogs were too resilient, as though they were immune to the bullets. Two charged her, and the other charged Fred. A scream, a howl, a yelp, and then silence on Fred's end. _Can't worry 'bout it, gotta live, gotta survive... _She fired another shot, although it went high and missed. One more shot found its way into the dog's side that was farthest from her, and it gave a spasm and died. However, the closer dog leapt up at her.

She resisted the urge to put her arm up. That would be a mistake. Instead, she pressed herself closely onto a wall, and the dog missed her by a few inches. Running up to it, she brought the butt of her weapon down on the dog's spine, crippling it. Screaming so to speak, she continued, even long after the dog had died. Finally, she gave up, crying, slumping down to the hardwood floor, that was now stained with blood. "Fred?" she called, getting up, feeling weak. Her blood hit the floor with small drops from the glass, but she'd have to treat it later. For now, Fred was all that mattered.

"Fred!?" she called once more, turning around the corner of the L-shaped hallway, staring at the door. _Where did he go? _"Fred? Fred?!" A man in a blue plad shirt and brown pants stepped out from nowhere, a smug look on his face. A handgun was at his side, tapping lightly on his slacks. She glared at him, raising her weapon. He held up a pale hand, and Fred came from behind him, a look of relief on his face. The man winked, walking past her completely. He smelled like.... maple syrup. When she turned around, the man had already walked into the door they'd come from, and was gone.


End file.
